


Woven Bonds

by thatmountainhermit



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Affection through fiber crafts, Confessions, First Kiss, Getting Together, Knitting, Love Confessions, M/M, Mostly Fluff, Sam Winchester is a Younger Sibling™, Telepathic Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:09:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28903920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatmountainhermit/pseuds/thatmountainhermit
Summary: A secret that Castiel has been keeping unexpectedly unravels during a quiet night, making Dean rethink and reconsider their relationship.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Robin (Supernatural: Bad Boys)/Dean Winchester (mentioned)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 143





	Woven Bonds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tigerfish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigerfish/gifts).



> Hello this is the longest fic I've written since I was like 13 AND it's Supernatural. Truly my 13 year old self possessed me and forced me to write this (I blame tigerfish, who this work is gifted to)  
> Inspired by [this post](https://jupiterjames.tumblr.com/post/148863222746/i-love-reading-fics-about-opts-having-mental-bonds)

He’d learned it a long time ago. During that time he'd been arrested and dropped into Sonny's care. When he'd met Robin, with her dark hair and deft fingers that worked over guitar strings and yarn in equal measure.

He learned a lot of things during his time with Sonny. Not all of them stuck. 

Somehow, this had.

Knitting wasn't exactly the pinnacle behaviour of a hunter, according to John Winchester. Never mind that after that awkward stage of getting used to holding the needles, of winding the yarn too tight and too loose around them, of lumpy and dropped stitches... it was peaceful. Soothing. One of the few things that made everything go into a quiet, soft focus. That lay his weary mind to rest. 

So yes, he learned how to knit. Then he put the needles down as soon as his Dad had picked him up again, acting like he hadn't up and left Dean behind for months. 

He'd forgotten about it until years later. They were in the bunker, cleaning out some old boxes and supplies, figuring out what was useful and what wasn't. Inside one, tucked right in the corner, was a few sets of different-sized knitting needles, a couple of balls of yarn, and a half-finished scarf.

In his bedroom, in the moments when sleep eluded him, he worked on it, using half-remembered techniques that came easier and easier with every stitch. 

The scarf was finished within the week. 

The next time he and Sam went out for supplies, he bought some more yarn. Sam didn’t comment on it. Neither did he. And that was that. 

Which led to now. They were in the bunker, having a rare evening of peace. Sam was reading some nerdy book, Cas was watching whatever awful reality show happened to be on the television when he’d turned it on, and Dean was knitting. In full view of them both. 

He had, fortunately, tuned out the worst of the reality show, lost in the pattern that he had been following. It was a (surprise) scarf for Castiel, in a warm blue-grey yarn that had reminded him of Cas’ eyes when he first saw it. He was at a relatively easy part, a simple knit, knit, purl. Knit, knit, purl. Knit, knit, purl.

“If he thinks ‘knit, knit, purl’ one more time, I’m going to stab him with those needles.” Castiel growled. 

Dean jerked violently, making Sam look up. “Dude, what the hell was that?” Sam asked with a frown. 

Dean looked at Cas, then at Sam. Back at Cas, who was half watching television, then at Sam, who was looking at Dean like he was crazy. “I- Cas-” Dean stopped before he started sounding crazy. Because he had just realised Cas _hadn’t actually spoken_. And then the words finally sunk in. “Cas, what the fuck was that?” 

“Hm?” Castiel finally deigned to look at him. “What was what?” Those damned blue eyes looked innocent, like he really had no idea what Dean was talking about. 

“You know damn well what.” Dean narrowed his eyes, lowering his work.

A high-pitched ringing, much like when Castiel had first tried to talk to him, sounded in his head. _What?_

“That!” 

Sam continued to look at them like they had gone off the deep end. Mostly Dean, though Castiel was now also receiving the combination bitch face and slightly-concerned-frown from association. 

Castiel, on the other hand, was starting to look less confused. Dean’s own face flashed in his mind looking exactly as confused and startled as he currently felt, as that ringing sound continued to pierce through his thoughts. _You. You can hear me?_ Cas’ voice, clear as day, once again. 

_No, I can hear the voice of another angel with blue eyes who always wears a trenchcoat._ Dean rolled his eyes. Cas’ own widened, almost comically. 

“Uh… guys?” Sam piped up. “Wanna tell me what’s going on?” 

A road, with cars driving on both sides. superimposed on top was a vision of the same road, with only Baby on it. Seasons cycling through, the ringing getting louder. Castiel’s face was carefully blank. “It’s… hard to explain.” He said, but the confusion was evident in the small crease in his brow, which would have been adorable if not for the fact that _they apparently had some kind of telepathic bond_. 

“Ooo… kay. I’m just gonna-” With that, Sam got up, book in hand, and headed for the door. “Call me when you two have finished… whatever this is.”

“What do you mean, the bond?” Dean finally asked, after a few moments of audible silence and a stream of _whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck_ in his mind that somehow sounded both like himself _and_ Castiel. 

An ice cold-hot feeling, glaciers and supernovas, running out of breath and time, of racing hearts, all running into him. Dean continued to stare right at Castiel, not-so-patiently waiting for an answer. “It’s. From when I brought you up out of hell,” Castiel finally admitted. “The bond. I can… sense things? Sometimes? From you.” 

“Things.”

“Strong emotions. Strong thoughts.” A cloud of words and emotions emanating from a bright light. Dean realised a moment later that the words were tinged with the sound of his own voice. It sounded like every thought he ever had, free to hear as if he was speaking. Every emotion as if it was clearly displayed on his own face. From the smallest twitch of annoyance, to the most overwhelming fear that had ever threatened to drown him. Castiel had been able to hear it all. To see it all. Everything that came from him. “But it has only ever been one way.” 

“Well, it’s not anymore,” Dean said, and then frowned. “When were you planning on telling me? Does anyone else know?”

Castiel flashed through his mind - not quite the Cas in front of him. His vessel blurred at the edges, spreading into something unfathomable and yet infinitely familiar. He was holding onto something, cupping it in both hands, holding it close, hidden from view of a thousand thousand spectators. “No. To both,” Cas admitted slowly. He looked away. “I’m sorry, Dean. At first I was trying to get rid of it, for both our sake. I couldn’t be distracted. You would have hated knowing that I could hear you, even a little bit.” 

“And yet it’s still here.”

Empty, empty, a fathomless void stretching on and on. An acute absence, tinged with the same colours as the light with Dean’s thoughts, but dimming rapidly. “I couldn’t figure out how to remove it.” A desperate call. A feeling of grasping something just out of reach, of sand slipping through fingers, only leaving faint residues behind. “And it was getting easier to tune it out, to give you privacy.” The same again, but a scream instead of a yell, gripping harder, barely holding on. A complicated bundle of sharp acrid tang in the back of his throat and a softness, a warmth that felt like the long-ago memory of home, of his own mother. Dean couldn’t begin to untangle everything, only acknowledge that it was not his own mind supplying these images, these feelings that felt impossible to slow. “Sometimes, you just get. Too loud to tune out.”

“And now I can hear you.” _I can hear everything,_ Dean realised.

Another bolt of panic. A single melody - familiar, yet foreign - rang through his mind. It was high, and delicate. But it was shaky. Exposed. “Yes.”

“Cas. I’m not gonna lie, man, I’m a little pissed,” Dean said quietly. Cas blinked slowly, the only physical acknowledgement of Dean’s words. “It’s kind of an invasion of my privacy.” 

“I’m sorry, Dean. I didn’t know this would happen. I- It wasn’t _meant_ to happen.” Cas’ shoulders were up by his ears, face carefully blank, indifferent. But Dean could feel it, a thick sludge that was easily identifiable as guilt dripping into his mind, accompanied by stabs of icy panic. 

Dean picked up his knitting, tucking it under his arm. “I’m going to bed.” He was not going to bed. He was going to blast Metallica through the noise-proof headphones Sam got him and knit himself into oblivion until he could figure out what the _hell_ was going on in his mind. “We’re talking about this in the morning.” That, they would be doing. Even if it made sharp stabs of ice-hot anxiety run through Cas (and, therefore, Dean) again. 

Even in the safety of his bedroom, Dean felt off-kilter. So he slid on his headphones, turned his phone up loud enough that Sam would complain about hearing loss, and picked up his needles once more. 

Knit, knit, purl. Knit, knit, purl. 

He’d always known, on some level, that he and Cas had… something. Some kind of bond tying them together. He’d known, on that same nebulous level, it started when Cas grabbed his damned soul and dragged him out of hell. It had started unnameable - it wasn’t just gratitude or debt, and then it wasn’t just because they were stuck in a bad situation that they were trying to improve.

Knit, knit, purl. Knit, knit, purl.

Then it wasn’t just camaraderie, and it hadn’t developed into quite the same bond that he had with Sammy. That was a bond of family, and of growing up together in conditions that Sammy (probably regurgitating the words of a shrink) called an abusive environment (once. The ensuing fight had… put the conversation on hold. Indefinitely.) 

Knit, knit, purl. Knit, knit, purl.

Apparently, he was right. There _was_ a bond between them. There was a reason that Cas seemed to always know how he was feeling, or what he was thinking, even if he didn't know, exactly, how to handle the situation. And now, for some reason, the bond went both ways. 

Knit, knit, purl. Knit, knit, purl. 

He was actively trying to block it out, between Metallica and the feeling of yarn and smooth metal between his fingers. But he could feel the edges of Castiel, even through it all. A thunderstorm, a torrential rain, a pool of guilt-sludge. Whispers of that single, fragile melody.

Knit, knit, purl. Knit, knit, purl.

And if he focused - like he was focusing now, pulling his thoughts away from the pattern, away from Metallica - he could feel other things coming from Castiel. Buried underneath the storm, the sludge. As Dean let himself go deeper into Cas’ mind, that lone melody became less fragile, soft harmonies running underneath. It sounded like a hymn, like the way Castiel talked. And wrapped around that song was the light of a thousand stars, the swirls of the arms of the Milky Way. A well-loved, well-worn, blue-grey scarf that warmed and comforted. 

Dean blinked, and saw the very same scarf in his hands, half complete.

Cas had always been in tune with him. It had always been off putting, no doubt, but. Another part of him found it almost comforting. Not having to force himself to speak about certain things, about subjects that wound themselves into tight balls that stayed stuck in his throat. Cas would just quietly understand, not forcing Dean to speak about what was running under the surface. Not unless Dean needed to say it aloud, to acknowledge what he was trying to squash under everything else. 

He ran a hand over already-completed stitches, taking in the ridges and bumps of the yarn under the pads of his fingertips. 

A memory of another time, another half-finished project, came to his mind. The first project he'd tried, after he got the hang of actually knitting. A simple scarf, in burnt orange yarn, the colour of Robin's favorite season. It was meant to be present for her birthday in early November, a thank you and a confession all in one. 

That scarf had stayed unfinished, he remembered. Left behind when Dad showed up on the night of Homecoming. 

He resumed his knitting. Pissed at Castiel or not, he was not going to let this scarf go unfinished. Cas deserved the gift, the sign of his appreciation and gratitude and-

And? 

Dean shook his head, focusing his efforts once more.

In the back of his mind, he could feel the overwhelming sludge of Cas' guilt beginning to settle. The beginnings of a star began to replace the feeling, clearing skies and regrowth in burned forests. The knowledge of the bond settling more and more within him, Dean found himself trying to figure out what, exactly, Castiel was thinking. Past the mess of emotions - because, Dean realised, he had been tuned closest to was sitting at the top of Cas' emotions - was… also a bit of a confusing mess.

The only words in Castiel seemed to be from Sam - Sam, who he was apparently currently talking to. Dean could tell it was Sam, if only because it sounded like him - because once again, Cas’ mental image of his brother was a bright light. It felt faintly familiar to Dean, like he had seen the same light in relation to Sam before. Distantly, the moments before Dean left to go to his room rolled around and around, circling and spinning. 

“Just give him time, Cas,” Sam was sighing, rubbing his eyes. “It’s a pretty big thing that you dropped on him - a pretty weird thing, too. You’re sure that no other angels knew?”

A flash of galaxies, of burning fires, of overlapping, ringing melodies, too many to count. It made Dean’s head throb, the sheer number of sounds and sights that Cas was cycling through - but then he caught a melody that reminded him of a long-dead archangel, and another that flashed with the face of a human - Anna, he realised a moment later. 

“No one else knew. _I’m_ not even sure how it happened.” Cas replied. “It just did. Don’t misunderstand me, I am entirely sympathetic to how Dean is feeling right now - he is not the only one to go through somewhat of a crisis over the development of our bond.” 

“ _You_ went through a crisis? Aren’t angels telepathic anyway?” 

“I can choose whether or not I want to read a mind, and what parts I read. A direct link to Dean’s mind, all the time, is _not_ what I expected, nor wanted, when I picked him up out of hell. Under orders, might I remind you.” 

“But things changed,” Sam started, giving Cas a _look_. One that Dean recognised, and one that was apparently far too familiar to Cas, too - the most-annoying-sibling-known-to-man voice. 

The sound of a thousand flies, continually buzzing in his ears. Annoyance, Dean realised. That was what annoyance looked like, in Castiel’s mind. “You don’t have to remind me about that, Sam.” 

“Things will work out, Cas. You’ve gone through worse.” 

“It’s made everything so much harder.” 

“Maybe it’s time that you told him. You two have been dancing around each other for far too long.” 

Pink. A hot, burning fire, and so much _pink_. “I am not having this conversation with you.” 

“Good. Go have it with Dean.” That was definitely Sammy’s I’m-the-most-meddling-sibling voice. 

Cas didn’t respond for a moment. Then, voice too calm compared to the annoyed buzzing of his mind, “Goodnight, Sam.” 

“Goodnight, Cas.” Sam sounded far, _far_ too pleased with himself. 

Dean pulled himself out of the middle of the bond, focusing back in on himself. The mess of experiences that was Cas was gently pushed back to the edges of his mind, though it was different, now. No longer covered in the thick sludge of guilt, or the ice-sharp-hot of panic. Instead was that burning-pink. The buzzing annoyance that was starting to fade. A different warmth - a book by a fireplace, a snatch of conversation and the faintest echo of a melody that Dean couldn’t quite discern. 

But still under it all, that constant starry-scarf warmth.

Dean continued his knitting until he felt the edges of the bond became hazy and slow. Only the vaguest images and sounds filtered their way through a quiet forest. Castiel had, Dean realised, gone to bed.

The soft, sleepy calm that lapped up against the bond made a yawn bubble out of Dean himself. Having worked through his emotions, and being surrounded by a softened version of the melody that radiated from the core of Cas’ thoughts, he found himself being pulled down into a similar soft abyss. Setting his knitting aside, he crawled under his covers, lulled to sleep by Cas’ melody and that all-encompassing starry-scarf warmth.

Morning came with a chaotic, choppy lake, waves crashing loudly against a pebbled shore. Dean found himself strangely stir-crazy, and took a moment to separate the muddled mix of his and Cas’ thoughts and emotions. After a breath to steel himself, Dean got up, pulled on a shirt and pants, and padded down the hall to the kitchen. 

Cas’ lake somehow became even more choppy the moment that Dean stepped into the kitchen. He was sitting at the table, two cups and the coffee pot beside him. The coffee pot was drained. A newspaper sat in front of him, though he obviously hadn’t been focusing on it, since it was unopened. “Good morning, Dean.” 

“Mornin’,” Dean mumbled, though doubted it was coherent. Calm in himself or not, it was still morning, and his body was not happy about it. 

Cas demonstrated exactly how much of an angel he was by sliding one of the cups to Dean once he sat down. It was warm, and it was full, and made just the way he liked it. Dean once again wondered how Cas, despite everything, was absolutely perfect in the weirdest ways. “Thanks, Cas,” he murmured after taking two large gulps of coffee. “I needed that.” 

“Always,” Castiel replied quietly, gaze still focused on the newspaper. 

Another few quiet moments passed. Dean downed his coffee, wanting to at least feel slightly human. Castiel continued to “read” the newspaper, though his mind flipped through ice-hot-panic and growth-forest-hope.

“So. Telepathic bond.” 

“I _am_ sorry, Dean. I shouldn’t have kept it from you,” the words spilled out of Cas. He bit his lip, somehow looking like a sad kitten in the rain. “I know I should have told you sooner.”

Dean took pity on the guy. Even if he had already forgiven him, it was almost impossible to stay mad at that face. “It’s - well, it wasn’t cool of you to keep it a secret, but you _are_ forgiven,” Dean reassured him. “We just gotta work things out now, I guess. Like how to stop every thought that comes out of you trickling into my head.” 

“It’s mostly just about tuning it out.” 

“Hard to do when every thought of yours is about ten different things at once, Cas.” Dean murmured. 

“Is that how you’re receiving it all?” Cas tilted his head, a curious puppy, hunting for knowledge about something completely new to him. 

“It’s like that synesthesia thing Sammy told me about, but on crack, yeah,” Dean grumbled into his cup. His gaze flicked up at Cas, who was looking at him with his head still tilted just so. “How are you getting my thoughts?” 

“Words and sentences, mostly. Your emotions are usually colours, though - if you’re thinking about other people, their faces will come up. But most of your thoughts are words, as if you’re speaking.”

“Wait,” the thought was coming out of Dean before he realised, “Does that mean you could hear me thinking about your scarf?”

“Uh…” Cas winced, looking incredibly sheepish. 

“How long have you known?” 

“Since you started planning? It wasn’t easy to ignore when it was all you were thinking about on the last supply run.” 

“Were you just going to _act_ surprised?” 

“Yes?” That burning-pink appeared again. The tips of Castiel’s ears turned pink. It was somehow the cutest thing Dean had ever seen, watching Cas bite his lip to try and hold back a smile. “You were so excited about it. I wasn’t going to ruin that for you.” That starry-scarf warmth hit Dean like a tidal wave, crashing through the bond. It felt like every quiet moment together, of driving with Castiel in the front seat beside him, of fighting with Cas by his side. It felt like creating a surprise for Robin, like that stolen year with Lisa and Ben. 

It felt like love.

Dean blinked. All that warmth, all that… love coming from Cas. And it was directed straight at him.

“Dean?”

Was that what their bond was? Was that what brought them back together, again and again, after all the shit that had happened? 

Love?

 _I’m in love with Cas._ Dean tried out the thought, rolling it around like rich whiskey on his tongue. Somewhere deep in his soul, in his half-shattered heart, settled. Softened. The words, he realised, rang true throughout his being. Even though it had just come to him, it had been true for a while. For years, really. He’d just never taken his feelings for Cas out into the light, inspected them properly, until now. And it had been there for so long, patiently sitting, waiting for the light of day. He loved Cas.

“I love you, Cas.”

Bubblegum-pink shyness flooded the bond, accompanied by firework-delight and more of that starry-scarf-love. Dean looked up at Cas, only to find him burying his face in his hands, his ears bright red. Dean let out a snort. “You can’t be that surprised. You’ve been holding a torch for me for ages, too.” 

Muffled slightly by his hands, Cas replied, “It is entirely different when you say it _aloud_ , Dean.” 

A laugh bubbled up out of Dean, unexpected and unbidden. Somehow, he felt lighter than he had in years. Whether it was entirely himself, or the floating-fireworks elation coming from Cas as well was a question for another time. He let himself just _look_ at Cas, who was finally pulling his hands away from his face. Let himself take in those blue eyes, still underlined by a bright blush but filled with that continuous warmth. He moved his empty cup out of the way, letting himself lean closer. “Hey, Cas,” he said softly. 

“Hello, Dean,” Cas’ reply was just as quiet, gaze flicking down to Dean’s lips. Back up to his eyes. A question unvoiced rang through the bond. Accompanied by that single, vulnerable melody. 

The distance between them melted away into a press of lips against one another. A hand came up to delicately cup Dean’s face, thumb settling lightly on his cheek as fingers threaded into his hair. The sweetness of the touch didn’t disappear, even as Cas deepened the kiss. It felt like rain after a drought, like two stars colliding together, like home. Dean tried to move closer, to press himself further into Cas, only to find himself stopped by the wood of the table between them. 

Cas laughed softly, pulling away. “I love you too, by the way,” he said, and then it was Dean’s turn for his face to burn under Cas’ touch. “See? It’s quite different hearing it,” Cas murmured, thumb gently tracking over his cheek.

Dean opened his mouth to reply, maybe tease Cas, but he was cut off by his meddling, smug bitch of a brother entering the kitchen. “Woah, guys. As happy as I am for you two, did you really have to do this in front of my salad?” Sam asked, sounding incredibly amused by his own joke. Cas let his hand drop, giving Sam a withering look. “I’m just saying, you both have your own rooms.” 

“Sam,” Dean said, turning to look at his dear-but-currently-very-irritating brother. 

“Yes, Dean?” Sam was giving him a smug smile, but the edges of it had a brightness that Dean rarely saw. One that only came to Sam when Dean stood up for himself when they were young, or did something for his own happiness

“You’re a bitch.” 

“And you’re a jerk.”

Dean hopelessly tried to smother the grin on his face - something he failed miserably at, if the delight from Castiel and the softening of Sam’s own smile was anything to go by. “C’mon Cas, we’re obviously not wanted here,” Dean said, absolutely no bite to his tone. He got up, gently pulling on Cas’ hand. Cas only gave Sam a smile as he let Dean pull him out of the kitchen. 

“Be safe, you two!” Sam called with a laugh. 

Dean ignored him thoroughly, squeezing Cas’ hand and leading him back to his room. He had a gift, and about a thousand kisses, to give. And, if the content purring sound that echoed down the bond was anything to go by, Cas was more than happy to give him a thousand back. 


End file.
